


i wanna ruin our friendship (we should be lovers instead)

by seravphim



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends With Benefits, Jealous Enjolras, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative, but neither does grantaire soooo, enjolras doesnt know how to express his feelings lol, grantaire & parnasse are kinda dating but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim
Summary: “Enjolras, you’re 23. You really mean to tell me you’ve never felt love once?” Marius asks disbelievingly, and Grantaire already knows the answer. He doesn’t have to look at Eponine to know she’s giving him a pitying look (even if she’d never admit it).Not fair,he thinks,I should be giving her the pitying look.Enjolras very pointedly does not look at Grantaire. “No,” he answers sharply.// in which Grantaire is mostly a nihilist, Courfeyrac should stop throwing parties, and Enjolras and Grantaire are friends with benefits except it doesn't really feel like a benefit.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Montparnasse, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 21
Kudos: 224





	i wanna ruin our friendship (we should be lovers instead)

**Author's Note:**

> title is based off of "Jenny" by studio killers, AKA the playlist to this fic if you just play it on repeat enough :^)

_“A friend is someone I can betray with love.”  
-Slavoj Žižek_

Marius is late.

Well, Grantaire is late, too, but at this point Enjolras would be concerned if Grantaire was actually on time for once. Only kidding, of course - Grantaire would be flattered just to know that Enjolras spared so much as a mere moment of pride to concern himself with Grantaire. A moment would be more than enough.

 _“...A moment of breathless delight!”_ Breathes Marius, clutching his chest, and Grantaire suppresses a wry laugh. “I know you’re concerned with your dear _Patria,_ Enj, but, if you’d ever seen how someone just falls into the right light - there are some people you’re just _made to love!”_

So Marius is in love. Enjolras isn’t. Nothing new. 

“Marius,” Enjolras starts like a warning. “I don't - _we_ don't have the time for that.” 

“No time for love?!” laughs Marius, and Grantaire knows _oh, Marius is in love, like, actually in love,_ because on any other day he wouldn't have the balls to contradict Enjolras. Not since Bonaparte. “You’re telling me that you’ve just… never had the time for love?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, one marble finger tapping on the surface of the coffee table. His eyes flick over to Grantaire briefly, so brief it might have been an accident. All the same, he seems unaffected, uncaring - so, Enjolras is an optimist with nihilistic tendencies toward love, and Grantaire is a nihilist with optimistic tendencies toward love. Not that he’d call them _optimistic,_ really, more like _delusional._ He can’t help but laugh this time. 

His friends divert their attention toward him. Enjolras gives him a quirked eyebrow. _Shit._

He takes a sip of whatever is in his bottle and lies, “I just think it's funny.”

Someone says “Oh?”, and if he’s lucky, it’s Marius, and if the universe is out to kill him, it's Enjolras. He doesn't know which one he’d prefer. 

“I mean, Enj,” he bites the name with a bitter edge, “You spent half of tonight going on about how _it’s all leading up to something, very soon now, it’ll come,_ and I guess it was leading up to Marius losing his virginity, huh?” He feels his face crack into an automatic, albeit inauthentic, grin. 

Enjolras flares his nostrils and looks like he wants to say something, but Marius interrupts about his dearest Cosette. Cosette, he describes, is rosy-cheeked and blonde and heaven-sent, and Grantaire’s knuckles turn white because _of course she is._ Hopeless romantics have a type, it seems. Not that he’d call himself romantic, of course. 

“Enjolras, you’re 23. You really mean to tell me you’ve never felt love once?” Marius asks disbelievingly, and Grantaire already knows the answer. He doesn’t have to look at Eponine to know she’s giving him a pitying look (even if she’d never admit it). _Not fair,_ he thinks, _I should be giving her the pitying look._

Enjolras very pointedly does not look at Grantaire. “No,” he answers sharply. 

It was at Feuilley’s apartment four months ago. That’s not the beginning, not really, because the beginning was the first time Grantaire ever saw Enjolras let slip a genuine smile (even if it wasn’t directed at him, but still). The heavens parted and the sun shined on his teeth - his stoic demeanor had been desecrated and so had Grantaire. It might not have technically been the beginning, but it was at Feuilley’s apartment four months ago that things really turned to shit. 

It was some party that Courfeyrac insisted on, something about a promotion, some trivial celebration, but in all honesty he probably just wanted an excuse to wear some fancy new suit. Courfeyrac has a special knack for manifesting a party out of nowhere. 

Courfeyrac also has a special knack for letting parties get out of hand, which is why it takes place at Feuilley’s. 

Grantaire would have been quite sure he had been plastered out of his mind because he doesn’t recognize any of the faces around him, except he knows that he’s not plastered because he’s scandalously trying to stop doing that so often, and he barely had one drink anyway, so who is the pretty man grinding on his leg? Not that he minded. He doesn’t _really_ mind. Leave it to Courfeyrac to let a bunch of strangers infiltrate a meaningless party. Leave it to Grantaire to let a pretty boy rub off on his leg in front of his closest friends.

It’s just that it was kind of boring, honestly, the whole low-risk, low-reward thing, where Grantaire and some nameless man fuck each other once a week and never talk again. So he tries making out with the pretty boy, tries putting his hands in his hair, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, but he knows it’s a lost cause when he can barely suppress a yawn against him. Oh, well. Retreat to some dismal corner and stay on the lookout for someone with blond curls to try it all again on.

A head of blond curls does eventually turn up, except it's actually Enjolras this time, and Grantaire can't really stand it. He’s holding a red solo cup filled with water, which Grantaire knows is water because Enjolras can't hold his liquor to save his life, so at this point if Enjolras isn't violently throwing up it must not be vodka. 

“Still here?” He asks, and he’s sure it sounds meaner than he meant. Enjolras clenches his jaw. 

“I just want to make sure no one… _you know,”_ he responds wearily. 

“A noble effort, Apollo,” Grantaire tries to joke, but this night is significantly less alcoholic than he can bear it to be and he’s sure a shot would get him through this conversation. He looks drearily down at his coke and wishes he were anywhere else. “But I think our friends have… _mostly_ left,” he looks over at Feuilley, who is lecturing Courfeyrac undoubtedly on his party-planning abilities. It was true, Joly rarely stayed at a party long enough to get drunk, which meant neither did Bossuet or Musichetta; Bahorel had retreated once he threw up; Jehan, who had classes the next day, had gone home early; Combeferre was exasperatedly waiting for Feuilley to end his rant so he could drive Courfeyrac home. Marius, of course, never stayed at a party later than ten o’clock. Enjolras was surprisingly still lingering. 

Grantaire adds, “And I’m not absolutely shitfaced, if that’s what you thought,” gesturing to his (painfully) non-alcoholic soft drink. 

Enjolras studies him with a look Grantaire can't quite place. “So you were sober when you were…?” 

He rolls his eyes when he realizes Enjolras is talking about how he crammed his tongue down a strangers throat a few minutes ago. His skin burns, suddenly. “Unfortunately,” he answers. 

Enjolras cant help himself. “That can’t be satisfying,” he mutters. 

Grantaire can’t help himself either. “That's a bit holier-than-thou, don't you think? Besides, I thought you hated slut-shaming, and that you were, like, pro-sexual liberation or whatever.” 

Enjolras ignores this. “You kiss him like you’re proving a point.” 

“Maybe I am.” 

A silence stretches between them, the kind of silence that muffles the world around you. The red solo cup in Grantaire's hand is squeezed as tight as he can without crushing it. He wants to leave, but Enjolras approached him first, damnit, and even though he’s sure he regrets it, that must still count as a win. _It must count as something._

“I see you kissing someone new at every party,” Enjolras speaks up, disdainfully. _Enjolras watches me kiss other boys,_ Grantaire cringes at the realization. _Enjolras must think I’m the scum of the earth._

“I mean, they’re cute,” Grantaire explains, “but I never really like them enough for them to stick.” 

He sneaks a glance at Enjolras, who is wrinkling his nose. “Why don't you just kiss people you like?” 

Grantaire’s mind already responds _oh, fuck off,_ but he just scoffs in response. Enjolras doesn't reply, so he lies, “It’s better when you don't like them,” _(it’s not)_ and then adds, “Besides, that’s easy for you to say.” 

He still doesn't respond. Grantaire bitterly laughs out, “Like - whoever _you_ like is probably waiting in line to fuck you,”

“What?” Enjolras asks, and _god, he can’t really be that oblivious,_ can he? 

“Everyone thinks you’re hot Enj,” he snaps, and he didn’t know it was possible to angrily flirt with somebody. Not that this is flirting. “Like, you’re just objectively hot. Fibonacci spiral hot. Scientifically, mathematically, good looking,” and Grantaire probably shouldn’t have said that because Enjolras’ ears turn pink and he flushes red.

Another silence. Yeah, he shouldn’t have said that. 

“Anyways,” Grantaire says, finally swallowing his pride. “I think I should probably go.” He makes to leave, but a smooth hand is instinctively tugging at his sleeve. It’s Enjolras’. 

“Wait -” He whispers harshly. “I’ve never done that.” 

“Done what?” Grantaire asks, carefully removing Enjolras’ hand _(his hand!)_ from his arm. 

“Just… casually made out with somebody. Or took them home -”

“You’ve never hooked up with anybody?” He questions, and Enjolras gives him a wide eyed look, as if any of the strangers around them give a shit about his sex life. He purses his lips into a hard line and shakes his head. 

Grantaire studies him. _“Okay,”_ he says. “Um, good for you? Again, kind of holier-than-thou -”

“No,” Enjolras interrupts, sounding very annoyed for someone who is, for once, not making any sense. “I mean, I want to try it,” He says methodically, robotically, and there are no pulling heartstrings or violins swelling like in the movies when the love of your life wants to sleep with you. Not that he’s the love of Grantaire’s life. It’s cold. It’s a hypothesis. 

“You can’t possibly mean you want to try it with _me,”_ Grantaire hufts out in a frantic laugh, but Enjolras nods, yes, he did mean him. _What?_

“Surely you want someone you actually _like_ -” but Enjolras is shaking his head.

“You said it’s better when you don't like them,” he reminds him, and Grantaire bites his lip hard and remembers that _right, Enjolras still resents him. Don't forget it._

 _“Right,”_ he agrees dryly. “But this will surely mess with the dynamic of the group -”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

Grantaire has had tons of meaningless sex with people he doesnt like. It’s easy. It’s therapeutic. Except it’s to distract from the fact that he’d really like to be having meaningful, sickeningly sweet domestic sex with one person in particular. That person who, inexplicably, wants to have sex with him - _meaningless sex,_ he reminds himself. Not really the same.

He shouldn’t do it. Obviously, the answer should be a firm _no,_ and then Enjolras will respect his lack of consent because he’s Enjolras, and Grantaire can remain a relatively stable person. Not that Grantaire doesn’t want to, of course, he just shouldn’t. There are things that you just shouldn’t do, like heroine, or drinking yourself to death, or fucking someone you love when they don’t love you back. He should say no. He knows this. It’s a one-syllable word, very easy to say, a preschool word. He should say it.

“Okay,” Grantaire says instead, and Enjolras doesn't beam like Grantaire imagined he would (not that he’s imagined this), or kiss him, or hold his hand on the way to his apartment, but Grantaire is not a choosing beggar. It’s all very unceremonious. And it’s better that way, anyway, because he doesn’t know if he would be able to handle that level of intimacy with him. So it's nothing, so it’s meaningless. Still, sex with Enjolras. Play pretend. 

He tries to relish it. The warmth of Enjolras’ skin, the sounds he makes, the way he smells (his conditioner is strawberry and Grantaire understands that this means he can never have shortcake again). He tries not to remember it. There are things unbearable. 

He doesn’t put his hands on Enjolras because he can’t, not if he wants to make it through this alive. He knows he isn't disciplined. If he lets himself put his hands in Enjolras’ hair, he’ll let himself talk, and then he’ll say something like _I love you_ or _stay the night_ or _stay forever_ \- there can be none of that. No soft kisses on those marble fingers or the luxury of threading a finger through a golden coil of hair. They say nothing, touch very little, and do not mention it once it is over.

Afterwards, Enjolras takes a shower, and then Grantaire, and when he comes out he is surprised to see Enjolras still there, stiffly pushed all the way to the side of his bed, asleep. Grantaire hugs the other side of his mattress and doesn't sleep a wink. He can feel where the mattress dips in support of the other boy, feels the warmth radiate off of him, memorizes the rhythm that Enjolras inhales and exhales. It means nothing. _Nihilism,_ he thinks sourly.

Deep into the night, Grantaire allows himself one luxury. He allows himself to sneak a glance at Enjolras, who is fast asleep. In his sleep, his hair has become frazzled, curls of frizzy hair thrown over Grantaire’s pillow. It is the first time he has seen him truly at peace, and he wants nothing more to share it with him, to be the cause of that tranquility. He turns back over and shuts his eyes tight. Not that he sleeps that night, of course.

When Enjolras wakes up at 6:30 am, he pretends not to notice. He pretends to be asleep. When he slips out the door a moment later, wordless, Grantaire sits up and notices his sketchbook flipped open on his nightstand, a note scribbled in Enjolras’ handwriting. 

_sorry r_

They don't mention it. 

Marius won't shut up about his dearest Cosette and Enjolras won’t stop rolling his eyes at the mention of the word love and Grantaire can no longer make it through a meeting without a drink. Weeks ago, he thought he was getting better at this. Weeks ago, he was also trenchantly not thinking about Enjolras (mostly). Things change, Grantaire knows that better than anyone. 

Eponine should be the one getting all the sympathetic looks. Marius is the unrequited lover going on about his beloved. Enjolras isn't doing anything - how does he manage to fuck with him by doing nothing? 

One day Marius tells them that they would all be happier if they were in love. 

“I’m sure as hell off worse,” mutters Grantaire, except he didn't really mutter it, which warrants a strange look from his friends. Enjolras gives him a lingering glance, eyebrows knit, lips pressed tight. Grantaire looks straight ahead - he has gotten good at looking without looking. 

Exasperatedly, Enjolras flips over his thick pamphlet with a loud whap and Marius turns back to him. “And you, Enj?” 

He clenches his jaw. “Those kinds of things aren't worth my time.” 

Grantaire can feel Eponine squeeze his arm but he’s already out the door with his coat in his hands. 

It would be easier if it only happened once. A quick fuck, unspoken, gone as soon as it came. Easy. Fine. 

But Courfeyrac throws another party. At least now he has the courtesy to host it in his own apartment (well, maybe not to Marius, who will have to be subjected to the party against his will, but it’s _mostly_ courteous). Grantaire is not going to kiss anyone this time. He is going to avoid Enjolras. He is going to get through it and leave early.

Only kidding, of course. He is in their green-tiled bathroom sucking on a cigarette. 

Granted, he isn’t kissing anyone, and unless Enjolras is hiding in the bathtub, he’s okay. He can hear a muffled ABBA song drip through the walls and his head is pounding along to the rhythm. He should probably leave. If he left now, it would be a successful night without Enjolras, with nothing to violently think over late into the night. But a sick part of him wants to see Enjolras and let his stomach twist in a certain delightful way. Restlessly, his foot wont stop tapping. 

He lets out a frustrated groan because no one knows and this secret will die with the two of them. Well, the two of them and Eponine, of course. And that would have maybe been nice, except that means that Enjolras didn't tell anyone, not even Combeferre. At that first meeting after Feuilley’s party, Grantaire expected the worst. He expected Courfeyrac to bounce around him and make innuendo after innuendo and he expected to be able to slice the tension in the air with a knife. But there was none. And Grantaire realized that nobody actually knew that they fucked, because Enjolras hadn’t told them, because he was ashamed. Humiliation is almost as painful as self-destruction. Almost. He stubs the cigarette out beneath his foot. 

Fine, then. Go home, take a shower, sleep off the anxiety. If he goes home now, all will be well. A pretty much successful night. He opens the door.

Enjolras is standing there, hand outstretched like he’s reaching for the doorknob. 

“Oh,” he says in greeting.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says curtly. 

“You can use it, I was just leaving,” he explains, trying to slip past him, but Enjolras has suddenly made his body an obstacle.

“I wasn’t going to use it. I was looking for you,” he says bluntly, and even though its monotonous Grantaire can't help the fluttering in his chest: _he was looking for me?_

“Oh,” Grantaire repeats. He watches Enjolras sneak a look to his side - making sure no one is watching us, he realizes - and he pushes them both into the bathroom. Grantaire has a sick - and shamefully delighted - feeling he knows what this is. 

Their bodies are huddled close together, close enough that Grantaire can smell Enjolras’ conditioner which will always be the scent that lingered on his pillows after _that night._ His hand is on Grantaire's abdomen, mouths close enough that kissing would come naturally. 

_Would_ come naturally. Nothing feels quite natural with Enjolras. 

“Is this about,” Grantaire gulps, “Is this about last time?” He peels Enjolras’ hand off of him and swears something changes subtly in the other boy's expression, something he can't quite place. 

Enjolras nods. “Unless…?” 

Grantaire reassures him with a nod. “No, no - I want to,” he says, because he does, he wants this, he just wishes he didn’t. And the pain of it all is suddenly worth it because Enjolras smiles - that same smile that started all of this - as he strips off his sweater. His chest is flushed and warm underneath it, and Grantaire does not let himself touch. 

It happens on the toilet wordlessly, cold porcelain on hot skin, hot skin on hot skin - only kidding, Grantaire doesn’t bring himself to touch more than he needs to. Grantaire wipes his mouth when he’s done, grabs his coat, and doesn’t look him in the eye when he mutters “I guess I’ll see you around, then.” 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything until Grantaire's hand is on the doorknob, and then he just asks, “Grantaire?”

He can never ignore him. “Mhm?” He hums, turning around as smoothly as he can.

Enjolras is buckling his belt back up. “What usually happens after you do this?” 

Grantaire leans back and forth on his heels. “Um,” he recollects. “Usually... we just kind of drift apart, I guess.” 

Enjolras makes no reaction, so Grantaire continues. “It’s called a one-night stand for a reason, I’ve learned,” he tries to laugh. “But you know I never really like them, anyways.” Enjolras nods. 

A beat passes. Has the party ended? Has the world caught on fire? Grantaire can’t seem to focus on anything, suddenly.

“I think we should stop doing this,” Enjolras says, looking straight past him, over his shoulder, like Grantaire has disappeared.

“Oh,” he says, barely audible over the music muffled through the door. He is gripping his coat even tighter in his fist now. “Okay. You’re right.”

Enjolras nods, finally makes brief eye contact, and then looks down at his feet. He looks like he’s going to say more but Grantaire refuses to hear whatever it is, and instead turns around briskly and shuts the door behind him.

They have sex three more times at seperate parties, all of which are punctuated with apologies.

“Maybe Marius is right,” Eponine murmurs one night while crashing at Grantaires place. He snaps his head up at her. 

“What are you talking about?” He asks, because Eponine may have a lot of love for Marius but even she admits that he is not exactly the brightest. 

“Maybe you would be happier if you were in love, I mean.”

“I _am_ in love.”

She sighs onto her back on the opposite edge of Grantaire's bed. _The side Enjolras slept on, once,_ he thinks. “You know what I mean,” she says. “If you were… loved. Romantically.” She pauses and reminds him, “I love you, you know that.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” he replies automatically, and then, “You know as well as I do that it’s not that simple, ‘Ponine.” 

She hums, thinking. “Just a distraction. Enjolras can’t be everything, you know.” 

_He is._

“I know,” he replies. He rubs a circle into the side of the mattress. “But I have distractions all the time.” 

“I don't mean just someone to fuck,” she clarifies. “Something more long-term.”

He wrinkles his nose at the thought. “I can't… _do that._ You know I can’t do that.”

“You don’t have to be in love with them, R,” she says gently, and Grantaire is bitterly reminded of the note Enjolras left him the first time, the only time he’s ever used his nickname. “You just need to be reminded that you can love other people.” 

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “And you? Don't you need a _distraction?”_

A few beats go by in a comfortable silence. “I don't know. I don’t think so.”

He turns on his side to look at her. This is a new development. “Are you over him, then? Marius?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I still really, _really_ like him. A lot. But the other day he introduced me to Cosette, and I was expecting to hate her - _I really wanted to hate her_ \- but she was just so kind, and pretty, and she had the nicest hands -”

“Hands,” echoes Grantaire, thinking of Enjolras’ long, slender fingers. “You might be in it _deep._ You certainly have the potential to be in it deep.”

Eponine makes a garbled sound in her throat and shuts her eyes tight. “I can’t think about all of this right now. Anyways,” she sighs, “I think I know someone you might kind of like.” 

Montparnasse is nice enough. Luckily for Grantaire, he’s the polar opposite of Enjolras - only kidding, the polar opposite of Enjolras is Grantaire. But Montparnasse comes close. 

He and Grantaire like to get hammered together and sometimes they shoplift from Hot Topic and Montparnasse teaches him how to put on eyeliner. They fuck a lot, sleep in the same bed often, and although Grantaire is relieved to be able to touch someone during sex and not fear being found out, he’s impartial to Montparnasse’s hands. They don’t go out on proper dates, which Grantaire is grateful for, and Grantaire never asks how Montparnasse is always inexplicably dressed to the nines. It feels more like a friend with benefits, except Grantaire’s been down that road - _is maybe still down that road?_ \- and this doesn't have that same destructive mess to it. Basically, Montparnasse is a reason not to screw Enjolras.

Only kidding, of course, Grantaire would still screw Enjolras if he asked. It’s just that Enjolras doesn’t ask now that Grantaire has someone he calls a boyfriend. Not that Montparnasse is his boyfriend. But Enjolras doesn’t need to know that. 

Grantaire’s pretty sure Montparnasse wants Jehan anyway, but Jehan is still figuring things out, so in the meantime everything is fine. Kind of. 

In hindsight, Grantaire told Enjolras in perhaps the worst way. There was almost a sixth time, except it wasn’t at a party. Grantaire likes that concept a lot less - fucking at a party has that excuse of _atmosphere_ and _sleaze_ and _just stumbling into each other in the bathroom,_ so when Enjolras shows up on Grantaire’s doorstep it means Enjolras went out of his way to fuck him, _so whats the excuse now?_ And worse, it's only the second time he’d ever been to his apartment alone. He tries not to think about the first time.

Grantaire, groggy and still half-asleep, opens the door at half-past midnight and is violently pulled awake by the sight of Enjolras. 

“Uh -” is all Grantaire can manage before Enjolras brushes past him, into the apartment. He immediately peels off his coat and flings it onto a chair, like he comes here all the time, like he knows the place. Biting his lip, he places a hand on Grantaire’s side and with his other hand pushes a rebellious curl out of his face. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, because that’s how these things start, with an apology. “It’s been a long day, and I’ve been under so much pressure recently, and I just... _I really need this right now.”_

Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to do, except try to subtly remove Enjolras’ hand from his waist - he has never allowed these types of domesticities - and part his lips in confusion. ‘I just really need this right now,’ his mind echoes, and Grantaire is half elated and half ruined. This, he thinks bitterly. Not me, this. 

“Enjolras, I’m, uh -” he pauses, not sure how to articulate that he’s going to stop fucking him forever now that he has a boyfriend. Not that he has a boyfriend. “I'm not free. Tonight. Or, um. I won't be free for a while, actually.” 

Enjolras stares at him. “You’re busy? At 1 am?” 

Shit. He has to just say it. He doesn’t. “I can’t… do _this_ with you anymore.” 

Enjolras widens his eyes in horror and hastily takes a step back. “If I overstepped a boundary, tell me - I didn't mean to take advantage of you, Grantaire -”

_God. _Enjolras thinks this is about consent. “No, no,” interrupts Grantaire. “It’s not that, its, uh -”__

____

____

_How do I say this so that you know I don’t hate you. How do I say this so you don’t hate me. How do I say this so that you leave me alone forever, in peace. How do I say this so that you never leave me alone. How do I say this so that it doesn't hurt. Not that it would hurt. Not that this meant anything, of course. Whatever you’ll allow._

He tries to laugh it off. “I guess I, uh, fell in love!” Not like that. “Not with - shit, Enj, I didn’t mean with you, sorry -”

Enjolras is looking at him hard, mouth fixed into a hard line, dimple in his chin deepening. _“When?” _He asks, in a tone like when he is giving angry speeches at rallies or when they are mid-argument and Grantaire has said something that really, really pissed him off.__

____

____

“Only a few weeks ago -” and Grantaire realizes Enjolras is mad because he thinks he’s the other woman, that Grantaire has pulled him into some scandalous affair. “This was before, uh - you’re not, um, a homewrecker, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he punctuates it with an almost hysterical laugh, trying to make it easier, like trying to tame a rabid dog. 

“Oh,” Enjolras murmurs, hands bunched into fists. “Good, then.”

“I’m really sorry, Enj - I know I should have told you as soon as I asked him out,” he says, and at this Enjolras gives him a sharp glance, which Grantaire would think looked hurt if Enjolras was capable of that. 

“ _You_ asked _him?”_

Grantaire breathes in, steadying himself. “Eponine introduced us.”

“Oh.”

He can hear Enjolras breathing heavily, and he’s momentarily reminded of the way he breathed that night in his bed, the most vulnerable he’s ever seen him, and he suddenly wants so badly to say _only kidding! Come to bed with me!_ He represses that traitorous part of his brain. He will be disciplined. He will be good. “Look, Apollo,” he starts.

 _“Call me my name please,”_ Enjolras snaps. 

“Enjolras,” he tries, softer. “I’m sorry -” 

“No,” Enjolras laughs dryly. “Don't - this is the most shameful thing I’ve ever done, do you know that? I don't do things like _this,”_ he hisses the last word like a knife. 

_Enjolras feels dirty,_ Grantaire understands, _Enjolras is ashamed at having let himself fuck someone as lowly as me._ He can’t help himself. At this point, there are two possible roads he could follow, judging by the overwhelming emotion he’s failing to suppress - either tell Enjolras that he’s been in love with him this whole time, _sorry,_ or turn all of it into anger. He picks the latter, he always does. 

“I was just doing what you asked me to do, Enj, and you’re acting like you’re so much better than me - like I’ve fucking debauched you with my dirty hands or something -”

“You think - you -” and Grantaire realizes that finally Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. “You know what? It’s for the best. We should have stopped doing this a long time ago.”

He can feel wet tears sitting on his eyes, can feel something hot pulsing in the middle of his face, can feel his voice crack when he says, “I never came to you. I would have never come to you. _You_ came to _me._ Thats your fucking fault, _Apollo.”_ He spits the words out at him, because it’s not fair, Enjolras is only humiliated at allowing himself to stoop so low and Grantaire is being reminded that he’s unlovable by the only person he’s ever let himself love, and even now he wants to pour gasoline on the fire or do something real bad like say _I love you._ Only kidding, of course.

Enjolras’ eyebrows are pulled close and hard together, yet he is still somehow mechanical, statuesque - not one spilled tear, not one crack of his voice. He taps a finger against the side of his leg a few times and brusquely exits his home, but not before he lets out a final blow: _“I hope you’re finally satisfied, R.”_

It is the first time he has ever spoken his nickname out loud. Grantaire is so distracted by this that he doesn’t notice Enjolras has left his coat flung on his chair. The next morning, when he spots it still lying there, he folds it up neatly, considers bringing it back to him, and instead pushes it to the bottom of his closet. He swears it smells faintly of strawberries, but he never pulls it out again to check.

After this interaction, Grantaire is set on never bringing Montparnasse to any function involving his friends, ever. But everyone is eager to meet his boyfriend (not that he’s his boyfriend) and Courfeyrac won't shut up about it until one day Eponine takes the liberty of just bringing him herself. 

“Sorry,” she says, not really sorry. “It’s better for our collective sanity.”

 _It’s really not,_ Grantaire thinks, but Montparnasse is already here and the group is flocking to him and there's no dragging him home now. He hopes they don't notice that Montparnasse is basically just him with fewer morals yet somehow more stable. If this turns into the most hostile environment the Musain has ever seen, it might be worth it to see the way Marius’ eyes pop out of his head at Montparnasse. Maybe. 

A few minutes of poking and prodding him pass, until Courfeyrac asks, “So, _what’s Grantaire like in bed?”_ Grantaire makes a point of not looking at Enjolras, and Montparnasse gives him a grin and can only manage to say “distracted” before Enjolras clears his throat. 

“With all due respect, friends,” biting _friends_ like it hurts to say. “We have orders of business to attend to,” and although this is not an unusual sentiment for Enjolras he says it in a chagrined manner and Grantaire knows that it will be a long night. 

“Enjolras?” Montparnasse questions, and _fuck._ Grantaire hadn’t told him anything specific, just that there was history - on one hand, what is there to tell? And on the other, it’s far too stupid and convoluted to explain. Absolutely not. “That's you, right? _Enjolras?”_

He stops leafing through a few pamphlets to give Montparnasse a scathing look. He is not looking at Grantaire. He refuses to let his eyes flick over to him. “Yes,” he says, agitated. 

“Grantaire warned me about you.” He feels his ears go pink. 

“Did he?” asks Enjolras dismissively. 

“Yeah,” laughs Montparnasse good-naturedly. “He said you have a stick up your ass.” 

Enjolras mutters something like _sounds like him_ but it’s hardly audible over his friend's laughter. Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t like to do these types of things anymore, but that night he drinks through the meeting for the first time in months. 

That night, after the meeting, when Montparnasse is in the bathroom, Enjolras approaches Grantaire unsteadily. 

“So Montparnasse is your boyfriend,” he states robotically.

“Yep,” Grantaire gives him a polite smile. Enjolras passes a glance over Grantaire’s being and gives him a dejected sigh, which Grantaire doesn’t think about.

“He’s the one that you fell in love with, then?” 

Grantaire nods, refusing to make eye contact. “The very one,” he assures. 

A silence falls between them as Enjolras taps a finger on the seam of his pants. He bites his lip in a frown. “I don't like him,” he says finally. 

“That’s unsurprising,” Grantaire scoffs, “He’s just me, except a bit more bold, if you can imagine such a thing.” 

_“I don’t like him,”_ he repeats, in a change of tone that Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of. 

“Careful, Apollo, or you might make me think you're _jealous,”_ he bites in response, and he knows it's a low, dirty blow, and not even true anyway, but he’s certain he knows where this conversation is going if he doesn’t cut it short.

Enjolras turns red and shrinks back a bit - _that’s funny,_ Grantaire thinks, _I’ve never seen him do that_ \- and he looks like he wants to say something awful but he spots Montparnasse returning from the bathroom and excuses himself. _“I told you to stop calling me that,”_ he mutters as he turns away, and Grantaire realizes it's the first time either of them have referenced that night. 

Grantaire doesn’t bring Montparnasse to any other meetings after that. But Courfeyrac thinks he’s fashionable and Bahorel thinks he’s funny and Joly thinks _he’s good for you, Grantaire, really, you seem like you’re doing better now that you have someone,_ so when Courfeyrac throws another party it's at Montparnasse’s apartment. It’s good for Courfeyrac, but bad for Grantaire, because Montparnasse loves to throw parties which means that as long as he’s dating him every party will be thrown at his place, which means Enjolras won’t attend any of them.

Which, okay, that’s _good_ for Grantaire, like how medicine is good for Grantaire but he still hates the taste. He doesn’t see much of Enjolras at all these days, and Eponine congratulates him for that but even in Montparnasse’s bed he still thinks of the private things about Enjolras only he has had the pleasure of seeing. Some things haunt you forever. Although this isn’t quite a _haunting._

In the meantime, Eponine and Cosette have gotten more than acquainted through these parties, which is definitely the only reason why Marius can even stick around through them. Grantaire’s not sure when they became a _thing_ but one night he catches Cosette making out with Eponine and the next morning Marius drops her off at his apartment. It’s sweet, mostly, except now Grantaire feels like he’s fourth wheeling them whenever they hang out. 

It’s the loneliest he’s been in years - only kidding, of course, because even when he was fucking a different person every week he was still crushed by loneliness, but at least then it was easier to pretend he wasn’t. One night when Montparnasse isn’t there, he admits that a part of him still aches for Enjolras and buries his head in his hands, trying to drown out the thought. 

Montparnasse doesn't mind anyway. He’s a good not-boyfriend, but Grantaire can see the way he looks at Jehan and knows that he can’t hold _that_ back forever. 

There’s one particularly bad night, a party where Combeferre surprisingly gets a little too tipsy, and Courfeyrac always winds up a little too drunk during these things, and they call Enjolras to come drive them home. 

Of course Enjolras comes, because Enjolras is responsible and dependable and he _does_ care for people - his friends, except Grantaire isn’t really his friend. There is not quite a word for what Enjolras and Grantaire are. 

So he shows up at Montparnasse’s wearing his pajamas and a grimace, looking like the floor of his apartment burns the soles of his feet. When Grantaire opens the door to let him in, a silence slices between them and lingers for a moment too long and he realizes that it’s the first time he’s seen Enjolras outside the Musain since he told him that he was dating Montparnasse. Actually, Enjolras makes regular appearances in Grantaire's dreams, but this is the first time in months he’s been a tangible person he could reach out and touch. _Touch._ Only kidding, of course. They hardly did that even when they fucked. 

He twists his mouth into a grin and swallows something sour in his throat. _“Apollo,”_ he greets innocently, and relishes the way Enjolras bites his lip in annoyance. 

“Where’s Combeferre?” He asks him, and Grantaire remembers _right, he is not here for me, and maybe never will be again. Not that he ever was._

Giving him a sardonic grin, he gestures vaguely down the hall, and Enjolras brushes past him quickly without another word. Grantaire can feel the warmth on the part of his shoulder that he grazed, and he wants to cry and laugh at how much he misses him, at how pathetic it is. All of it. _Him._

He lingers for a moment and then follows Enjolras into the living room where Combeferre has his head in Courfeyrac’s lap, listening to him slur on about how wonderful he is and beautiful and smart and how lucky he is to have him. 

“...and you’re so good to me, ‘Ferre, and - _Enjolras!”_ He chirps out upon noticing him. “‘Ferre look! Enjolras! It’s Enjolras!” 

Combeferre gives him a warm smile and murmurs _“My hombre.”_ Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“Okay, folks, let's get you home -” 

Courfeyrac gives him a groan. “But I’m having such a fun time with ‘Ferre,” he pouts. “Who I _love._ A _lot._ Why do you hate _love,_ Enjolras?”

Grantaire can’t help but scoff at the irony of it all. 

“See? Even Grantaire agrees,” Coufeyrac says proudly, and Enjolras does not turn to Grantaire. “You’re such a buzzkill, Enj,” he says, drawing the words out like a child. 

_“I’m_ in the middle of trying to organize a rally, Courf’ -”

“Boooo,” Courfeyrac moans back. “You know what they say! Love is all you need!” And he begins to sing the tune happily, slurring the words he doesn’t know. 

“Sure,” cuts in Enjolras, wanting nothing more than to leave. “Can we go now?”

It’s Combeferre who gasps. _“Courf’. He said ‘sure.’ He agrees.”_ And Couferyrac gasps too. 

“So you agree! You’ve been in love! You’re in love!” Enjolras is furiously shaking his head but Coufeyrac continues, “Tell us about your scandalous love affair, Enjolras.”

“No, Courf’, I’ve never -” he’s exasperated, pinching his nose. “I’m not in love, okay?” He says quietly. Grantaire takes a gulp of whatever is in his drink. “Can we go?”

Luckily for the both of them Courfeyrac finally lets up with a groan and offers his hand to Enjolras. Grantaire watches the three of them leave with a wry smile. That night he sleeps in Montparnasse’s bed - only kidding, of course. He can’t bring himself to sleep when those words - _I’m not in love, okay?_ \- ring through his head with a bitter resentment. 

He realizes in horror that Enjolras has probably started sleeping with somebody else by now. That someone else has had the pleasure of touching the skin he once touched. Not that they ever really touched. 

Montparnasse and Grantaire have been broken up for three months. Well, they’ve stopped doing whatever it was they were doing - sleeping together, _sleeping together,_ calling each other ‘boyfriend.’ Grantaire couldn’t really care less, except that his bed is cold now and harder to sleep in, even if it was only warmed up by somebody he wished was someone else - still, no hard feelings, no mess to clean up. 

Montparnasse is doing fine, too - more than fine, actually, because a month after they broke up he starts going out with Jehan. _Really_ going out, too, not just doing whatever it was he and Grantaire were doing. They show up to meetings together, and even though Enjolras still looks like he wants to poke out his eyes with a pencil, he’s less hostile toward him. He must be nice enough if Jehan’s dating him. Grantaire must have just been a momentary slip-up. 

Jehan did try to apologize to Grantaire once, though - “I know you’ve only been broken up for a month, R, so if you’re uncomfortable -”

But Grantaire just gives him a warm smile because really, he couldn't care less. “Jehan,” he begins. “When I say I don't mind, I really do mean it. There's no history there, my friend.” 

Jehan gives him a tight hug and flutters away, and Grantaire realizes it's the first time he’s been touched non-sexually in weeks. 

There’s one night, one particularly hard night, when he’s the last one out of the Musain. Only kidding, of course, Enjolras is always the last one out, which is why this night is particularly hard. 

He’d been drinking. That’s not exactly a new development, except he’s in the process of cutting back on that sort of thing, and Eponine is off with Marius and Cosette, and Montparnasse is off with Jehan, and Enjolras is - well, not that it matters, but the point is that there is no one to disappoint tonight if his glass is filled with vodka instead of water. 

Except Enjolras isn’t off with anyone doing anything, because he’s just finished working on whatever flyer he was working on and has silently slid into the seat next to Grantaires. One person to disappoint, it seems.

 _“Apollo,”_ he greets him, because he doesn’t like to say his real name. 

Enjolras doesn’t snap how he expects him to. “Grantaire,” he responds, not quite soft. “I’m sorry about Montparnasse.” 

He can’t help but bark a laugh. It’s one of the rare times Enjolras is apologizing \to him, and it’s on behalf of someone else. “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”

Enjolras studies him. “You really don’t have any attachment to him?”

Grantaire knows he shouldn't say it, knows that it would only make him seem more of a pathetic dick, but he can't help himself. “Why should I?”

He doesn't respond for a moment, just gives him a look like he’s biting something down, and in the silence it’s like Grantaire can hear his judgements floating around his head. Finally, he sighs, “Do you care about _anyone_ you’ve been with?” 

_Yes._ “No.”

Grantaire can see his knuckles go white. “I don’t know what I expected. You don’t care about anything, I don’t know why this would be any different -”

“Oh, fuck off, _Apollo,”_ he interrupts. “Don’t pretend like you care about anything other than your beloved _Patria.”_

 _“Stop calling me that,”_ he barks back. “Why don’t you ever just say my name? You can’t do that? You can’t give me that one pleasure?” 

_I want to give you many pleasures,_ he hears himself think and he wants to cry, wants to bury himself into his neck, wants to apologize, wants to say _Sorry, Enjolras, I can’t help it,_ but there are things better left unsaid. He says nothing at all. He stares past Enjolras’ shoulder and presses his mouth into a firm line because if he said something right now it might all come crashing down. 

_“I care about things._ You think -” Enjolras suddenly stops, twists his face into a frown, looks like he wants to say a million things, scream at him, yell at him. “I care about things,” he repeats, getting up. He gives him one last hard look and leaves. 

Grantaire buries his face into his hands and tries hard not to cry, or tries hard to cry, he can’t tell.

They keep throwing parties at Montparnasse’s. Grantaire would go, except he still feels sick from the last time he spoke to Enjolras, and even though the latter definitely wouldn’t go to any party at Montparnasse’s, Grantaire still can’t bring himself to meet his friends. When Courfeyrac sends a group text that just says _Party @ Monteys b there or b square_ he takes no time in responding _art final due this week sorry boyz :/._ A lie, of course, because his art final was last week, but he’s sure none of them know that. 

Tonight he wallows. He self-loathes, lounges in sweatpants, cries - only kidding, it won't come out no matter how hard he tries. He thinks about going anyway, for the free booze, and then he thinks about running an errand for cheap booze, but he pushes down those thoughts for tonight. He refuses to be self-destructive in more than one way - what can he say? He’s organized like that.

 _ _He takes a shower that lasts just a bit too long to be healthy, and a few minutes after he comes out there is a knock at the door. Probably Eponine, who sometimes brings him takeout when he’s working on a project, except Eponine is at the party with Marius and Cosette so unless he’s about to host the most chaste orgy ever,_ who is that_

He considers not opening but then there’s another knock at the door, with even more conviction this time, so he swings the door open and is prepared to bark a sharp _fuck off_ at whoever is banging on his door until he sees it’s Enjolras, and he can’t say anything. 

Like last time (not that Grantaire likes to think about _last time),_ he doesn’t wait for an invitation to step inside. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything Grantaire tells him, “I’m doing my art final, Enj, I’m not free.”

He gives him a confused look. “No, you’re not. Your art final was last week.” _How the fuck does he know that?_

“Um,” Grantaire says, because he doesn’t really know what to say. 

Enjolras takes a few steps too close and with a hesitant hand tenderly grasps Grantaire's fingers. “I wanted to spend the night with you -”

But Grantaire jerks his hand away, hard, and takes a step back. He does what is good for him, occasionally. “Enj, I can't - _I'm busy,_ ” he lies. 

Enjolras stares through him. “Oh,” he says, in a familiar tone. “I thought - because you’re not with ‘Parnasse anymore, that you’d want to - you’d have no problem doing this - with me - again.” 

It would be funny, how he dances around it, how he’s the most stoic person Grantaire has ever met (until he becomes a red mass of resentment). It would be. 

“That’s not the problem,” he begins. “I can’t just... keep fucking you like this,” he says, trying to make it soft. 

Enjolras just nods and lets out a hollow “Oh.”

Grantaire tries to make this better, tries to make it go in any direction other than last time. “I’m sorry, Apollo -”

 _“Why do you keep calling me that?”_ Enjolras suddenly snaps at him. “Whenever I try to talk to you, or touch you, or, or - you call me that! You never use my name!” He lets out a frustrated noise and adds, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

Grantaire still has no answer, so Enjolras continues. “And you keep peeling off my hands - you never let me touch you, not really, and you push me away and stay as far from me as possible - and you don't even talk to me! You never say anything! You just fuck me and discard me as soon as you can, and - do you not like me? Did I do something? Did you ever even _like_ me?” 

Grantaire blinks and feels the tears finally fall. Wet, hot drops of confusion and frustration and anger pour out. “Of course I -” Grantaire starts and before he realizes that he cannot say that, so he cuts himself short instead and says, “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

_“I’m talking about,”_ begins Enjolras fiercely, “I’m talking about the fact that every time I try to be close to you, you push me away. What's your problem? Why do you do that?” 

Grantaire ignores the first question. Not that he doesn’t know the answer, of course. Love makes him feel sick and he loves to feel sick. In an embittered act of alchemy, he turns his hurt into resentment. “Why do _I_ do that?” He asks harshly. “I - who was it who left in the middle of the night out of shame the first time we slept together? Not me! Who is it that never passes up an opportunity to remind us that they’re incapable of loving? _Not fucking me!”_

Enjolras is heaving, his chest rising angrily with every breath. Grantaire knows this part, when Enjolras is about to denounce him and do all but outright say he’s worthless. Except he doesn't. Instead he says, “I don't - _I don’t know,”_ in the same quiet, impassioned fury he would have had if he spat on him. Which, honestly, Grantaire would have preferred, because _what?_

“What?” He asks, and Grantaire realizes Enjolras is not suppressing his anger, he’s suppressing tears, and Grantaire has never seen him cry. 

_“I don't know,”_ he repeats. “I really, really liked you. I still like you, even though I feel like an idiot whenever we - whenever I try to be anything with you, and I kept thinking that maybe the next time we had sex you would touch me, or that you would say my real name, or - or - _I thought if we kept having sex I could get you to fall in love with me._

“But you never do - you can’t even look me in the eye most times, and I just… When they asked me if I had ever been in love, I said no, because I didn’t want you to know that the person you had been fucking for the past few months had fallen in love. Has always been in love with you. _Sorry, R.”_ He sneers his apology, trying to cover up the earnesty of it all, thinking it might hide the way his voice falters when he says Grantaire's nickname. 

At this point Enjolras has flushed red and the tears have fallen, his fingernails digging into his palms. “Sorry,” he repeats, dry and cracked, and this time Grantaire knows he really is sorry. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He had never considered this possibility, that Enjolras might not think he’s the most vile being on earth. Grantaire is not prepared for most things, but this especially. 

“You know I haven’t touched anyone since you,” he admits in a breath, like an exorcism.

“Enjolras,” he tries, softly, trying to take a step closer, but Enjolras takes a step back at the same time, toward the door, and shakes his head.

“No, you were right, I think,” he laughs dryly, and Grantaire is reminded of himself. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.” Before Grantaire can find the right words, he is gone.

There is only one time when Grantaire comes to Enjolras first. 

He has no patience. It is the next day. 

He spends the night before remembering those words - _I thought if we kept having sex I could get you to fall in love with me_ \- remembering all the times Enjolras had laid a hesitant hand on him, remembering that he wanted him, for god knows how long, but mostly remembering how he looked when he cried, reminding himself that _he made Enjolras cry._

That morning he drinks a glass of water because he’s not sure he could hold down a meal, folds Enjolras’ coat beneath his arm - he had kept it, of course, because he was sure he’d never have the opportunity to relish him again - and hops on the bus to Enjolras’ apartment. Before he has time to change his mind, he knocks, and he can hear him pad over to the door, listens to it unlock, and suddenly Enjolras is in front of him, mouth parted slightly in bewilderment. 

_This is going to be good,_ Grantaire thinks to himself. _This is going to be rational, it’s going to be logical, I am going to explain everything and it will be good._

“Why are you here?” Enjolras asks him with an unexpected bitterness, and okay, maybe not. 

“I’m, um, returning your coat,” he explains, and offers it to Enjolras, who receives it hastily. 

He opens his mouth to say more, but Enjolras just mutters a _thank you_ and shuts the door quickly. Grantaire is left cold on his doorstep, not knowing what just happened. 

A few seconds later, he gets a text from Enjolras: _I told you, I can't keep doing this._

A few weeks later, he gets a text from Courfeyrac: _party at parnasses whores 9pm ;)_

He hadn’t spoken to Enjolras since he returned his coat. He had avoided the meetings, avoided the Musain in general, had barely left his house for groceries. His friends checked up on him often, and each time he had feigned a cold until they left. Except for Eponine, of course, who knew Grantaire far better than he liked to admit. 

“You can’t avoid him forever,” she tells him.

“I can try,” he mutters. 

She sighs and pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes in a motherly fashion. “You know it’s not good for you to stay holed up in here for weeks on end.” He nods. 

“We love you,” she reminds him. “ _I_ love you,” she adds. 

“I love you too,” he murmurs back, because he does. And he knows they love him. He just doesn’t know how to properly love them back. Only kidding, of course, he knows to show up at Jehans poetry readings and to pick up medicine for Joly and he knows just the right compliments for Cosette’s baking. He just doesn't know how to properly love _Enjolras._

Her pocket buzzes, a text from Cosette reminding her that it's date night. She gives him a sisterly look and kisses his cheek. “We miss you,” she whispers. “Come back to us, please.” 

He frowns, suppressing the tears he feels welling up, because he does miss them, he just can’t handle seeing all of them, in love with each other, happy with each other, so soon. But he misses them. He nods and squeezes her hand, letting her know it’s okay to leave. The next day, he gets Courfeyrac’s text and swallows his pride. _At least it’s a party at Montparnasse’s,_ he reasons, so _Enjolras won't be there._

Except Enjolras is there, because the whole point of the party is to celebrate the success of some webinar he taught or something. Which Grantaire would have known had he attended any of the meetings recently. _Karma,_ he thinks bitterly. 

When he walks in the door, the party goes quiet for a brief, shocking moment, as Grantaire spots a wide-eyed Enjolras. “Grantaire,” he hears Joly murmur. “We missed you!” 

And then, “So, you’re _sure_ your cold is okay? Because I read that if a cold lasts that long it might actually be more serious, so you might want to -”

“Joly, my friend, I’m quite alright, actually - in fact, I think I might be more than fine, now that I’m in your splendid company.” Joly beams but still mentions something about mesothelioma.

The party is bearable, mostly. He sits on the opposite end of the couch as Enjolras, next to Eponine, and lets Cosette and Musichetta braid his hair into little knots. She updates him on all the group gossip - Jehan has moved in with Montparnasse (both of whom are currently sitting on each others laps), Bahorel won a boxing match, Combeferre is planning a proposal ( _but do not so much as hint about it to Courfeyrac, or else he’ll just end up planning his own proposal,_ she warns him), and it’s all very well and good. Grantaire feels surprisingly less bitter about the inherent love in the world than he thought he would. 

It’s _almost_ bearable. That is to say, it’s bearable until Courfeyrac gets a bit too tipsy and won’t stop talking.

“Combeferre,” he whines like a child, “you’re too good for me. You should leave me for someone more _competent._ ” 

Combeferre laughs. “Like who, my love?” 

Courfeyrac glows at his pet name and scans the room for a worthy replacement. _“Enjolras,”_ he decides smugly. Enjolras quirks a stoic eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, Enjolras,” he continues. “Because I think if Enjolras was _in love_ he’d be so much more relaxed.” Grantaire is studying his feet. “It would really be a party if you fell in love, Enj. Go kiss someone!” 

Courfeyrac glances at all the single boys in the room. “You have options, lets see… Bahorel, who is very fit and that would be very sexy, I think. Or Feuilley, if you kissed him that would be like, revolution porn. Or, um…” he glances at Grantaire. “Or Grantaire! That would be like, worlds colliding -”

Before Enjolras knows what he’s doing, he wryly says, _“I’ve already tried that.”_

A silence stretches across the room as the group snaps from tipsy lethargy to full attentiveness. They’re looking at Enjolras whose face is suddenly very hot. “What?” asks a disbelieving Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras taps a finger on his knee for a moment and then gets up. “I think I should go, now, probably,” he decides, and refusing to make eye contact with Grantaire, stalks out of Montparnasse’s apartment. In his haste, he had left his coat on the coat rack. 

Now they are all looking at Grantaire. “I’m sorry, _what?”_ Courfeyrac repeats. Eponine has placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He gently shakes it off and stands up. 

“I should, probably, um -” he gestures vaguely in the direction Enjolras went. On his way out, he grabs both of their coats. 

Enjolras is halfway down the floor’s hallway when Grantaire catches up with him. “Enjolras -” he starts, but he interrupts him.

“Please,” he says. “Don't ask me to sleep with you. I won’t be able to say no.” 

“Your coat,” is all Grantaire says, holding it out to him. 

“Oh,” Enjolras murmurs, and he swears something in his voice sounds disappointed. “Thank you.” 

Their fingers brush as Enjolras takes his coat and Grantaire feels some electricity buzz under his skin. He wants to warm those marble fingers, grasp his hand with an indescribable tenderness, but for once he thinks that Enjolras would be the one to peel his hands off. He gives Grantaire a meaningful glance as he takes a step back and says quietly, “I’ll go, then.” 

Watching Enjolras begin to turn back around, he runs a frenzied hand through his hair and starts toward him. “Wait,” he says, still unsure of the right words. “I don’t know what you want from me, Enjolras.”

He gives the other boy a smile like he’s biting something down and says coldly, fiercely, “I want nothing from you.” Then he forces himself to look away, up at the ceiling, shutting his eyes tight like it hurts to speak. Quietly, embarrassed, he says, “I want to have never humiliated myself -” 

“But - but -” Grantaire stammers out desperately, _“But you didn’t!_ You -”

“Well, _R,”_ Enjolras starts bitterly, factually, like he’s scolding himself as much as Grantaire. “I fell in love with someone who won’t even touch me. So what do you call that?”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Grantaire says softly. “I - I _wanted_ to touch you, to share a bed with you - It’s just -” He lets out a frustrated noise. “ _I couldn’t bear to touch you knowing that you didn’t love me half as much as I love you.”_

He lets a beat pass before he continues, “When you left early that first night, when you left me that note - I thought you were ashamed. And I didn’t want to fuck someone who was ashamed of it. I just wanted you to like me, because I really, really like you, and I can’t help myself.”

A silence settles in the space between them. “Oh,” says Enjolras, but this time it is not hollow, and he is stepping closer, trying to hold down a genuine, warm smile and Grantaire realizes that he is helpless. “But I do like you,” he reminds him, stepping closer still, so close that if Grantaire didn’t know better he would have pushed him away. Luckily, he knows better now. 

“If I had known that sooner, I wouldn’t have - this wouldn’t have -”

“There are knots in your hair,” says Enjolras distantly. He grins and runs a hand through Grantaire’s scalp.

“Cosette and Musichetta,” he offers as an explanation.

“Mmm,” hums Enjolras, hand resting on the side of his head. Grantaire puts his own hand on top of it, and for a terrifying moment Enjolras thinks he might peel it off again, but no, he realizes - _he’s holding it._ Grantaire finally allows himself to revel in the softness of Enjolras’ hand, rubs a circle onto his knuckle. 

“Enjolras,” he murmurs, feeling the way his name falls out of his mouth. He watches how his mouth quirks up and leans into him, brushing his mouth against his, relishing the tenderness of his bottom lip. Enjolras’ hand has moved down to his neck, and his other is on Grantaire’s waist, pulling him closer, and in a triumphant moment Grantaire realizes that _he’s kissing Enjolras, because Enjolras wants to kiss him, because he loves him._ He stupidly grins against his mouth and feels Enjolras grin right back, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

That night, they sleep together - only kidding, of course, they only _sleep together,_ which is to say they sleep tangled up in the same bed together. _Together,_ Grantaire thinks, head resting on top of Enjolras’, legs wrapped around the other boy’s legs, and realizes with soothing clarity that that's what they are: _together._ He feels the familiar rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest as he breathes, one hand palming the crook of Grantaire’s waist. Briefly, he is reminded of that first time they slept together - not that this is anything like that night. 

He whispers to Enjolras, “You really never knew?”

“Of course not,” he murmurs back, half asleep, his breath hot on his chest. He can feel Enjolras’ lips moving softly against his shirt. “If I did, I would have told you I love you months ago.” Grantaire thinks he fell asleep until he adds, sleepily, “I love you, do you know that?”

“I love you too,” he replies automatically, because he does. So, it turns out Enjolras is an optimist with absurdist tendencies toward love. So, it turns out Grantaire is an absurdist with optimistic tendencies toward love (finally!). With a bed warmed by someone who loves him as much as he loves them, _how could he not find meaning?_ That night, he sleeps a full, blissful night of sleep for the first time in a year.

When Grantaire wakes up in the morning, Enjolras is still there, clinging to him just as closely.

**Author's Note:**

> say hello on [tumblr!](http://seravph.tumblr.com)


End file.
